Up With the Kettle, Down With the Pan
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: Continuing after "Caught in the Furze", here's some more smuff.  You don't need to read "Furze" but there are a few references to it. Murphy / OC.  M for a reason.
1. Up With the Kettle

_A/N: Thanks to Pitbullsrok for pointing out my heinous crime of mistranslated Latin… but it all seems to work itself out here…_

_So here's Wren, and here's Pam, and the two Irish boys I don't own. I'm not making money on this. Just rabid fans!_

* * *

><p>"What the feck are we doin' here, Conn?" Murphy MacManus sighed at his twin as he craned his head back to look up at the building they'd stopped walking at.<p>

"Meetin' Pam. Havin' a few beers," Connor MacManus shrugged.

Murphy scowled at the sign over the door. "Grayson's? What's wrong with McGinty's, eh?" he whined, fishing his cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one.

"Nothin's wrong with it, Murph," Connor laughed. "But change is good, aye? B'sides, meetin' new people isn't all that bad."

Murphy fixed his brother with a glare. "If you feckin' fixed m'up with one o'Pam's coworkers, you're going to be very sorry, Conn." He exhaled a plume of smoke.

Connor laughed but shook his head, clapping his brother on the back good naturedly. "I promise ye, Murph, ye got nothin' ta worry 'bout." He lit his own cigarette and glanced up the street, searching for Pam.

The brothers were silent for a few moments, save for the inhale and exhale of smoke, and finally Connor stood a little straighter and waved at the leggy brunette coming up the street. "There she is," he smiled warmly. "Poor Murph was gettin' worried, lass," Conn explained as Pam came to a standstill before the twins. "He thinks ye have some evil plan for t'night," he mock whispered.

Pam smiled and shook her head, trying to suppress her laugh. Trust Murphy MacManus to know when something was up. He was right to follow his instinct, and she hoped that Connor hadn't given anything away. When Pam had discovered this bar a few weeks ago, she had also discovered Murphy's little bird, Wren Abernathy, whom he hadn't seen since St. Stephen's Day. Over and over Pam had told Conn that the darker twin was missing the girl, but Conn was never one to be in tune with that sort of thing. So Pam had done a little digging that first night at Grayson's, chatting casually to Wren and finding out if it might be all right if she brought the brothers by some time. Wren had tried not to look excited as she shrugged, non-committal, but Pam knew better. She'd called the bar yesterday afternoon, spoke with Wren, and made reservations.

"Murphy, don't you trust me?" Pam pouted, trying to sound hurt. Still, her green eyes gleamed with mischief.

Murphy shrugged, but he smiled easily enough. "If ye _have_ set me up with some homely co-worker of yours, I'll just take it out on Conn."

Conn flipped his brother off and crushed his cigarette beneath his boot. "C'mon. I need a pint."

* * *

><p>"Guinness. Three pints," Tara breathed as she set her tray on the bar. "Are there anymore menus back there?"<p>

Wren looked up from pouring a pitcher of Bud and nodded. "Yep. Just a second. Guinness, you say?" She casually scanned the bar, looking for a familiar dark head of hair. It was just after eight, the same time Pam had made reservations for. Wren couldn't help but be a little be…excited? Nervous? Giddy? She shuddered at the thought and looked back to Tara, who was talking again.

"Oh yeah," she sighed. "Some brunette and two ridiculously hot, Irish guys in the corner by the pool table," she explained, ticking her head back in their direction. "They even have _accents. _Lucky girl."

Wren's guts wobbled just a bit as she wiped her hands on the bar towel. She knew what it meant to be that 'lucky girl'. She'd seen it first hand for two glorious days and nights at the end of December. They'd parted on good terms, shrugging at any attempt to further the relationship. They'd see where it went, they agreed. Wren had found a new job and she had pegged Murphy as the type of guy who wouldn't just show up at her apartment unannounced.

Wren didn't say anything, merely poured perfect pints, and set them on the bar for Tara along with a menu. She wasn't sure how she was going to work this. She just didn't want to walk up to the table like she and Murphy hadn't had the most incredible sex for two days and then never talked again. And she didn't want to seem like she was avoiding him, either. Another order slid across the bar, grabbing Wren's attention, and she slipped back into work mode, talking with the patrons lining the bar and keeping up with her orders.

Connor craned his head back to the bar – _again_ – and Pamela elbowed him before shooting him a quick glare. He returned to his pint – the second for the evening – and wondered silently if Wren was ever going to make an appearance. His blue eyes flicked to his brother.

Murphy was watching Connor like a hawk as he sipped his beer – his _third_. Conn had been strangely interested in what was happening over at the bar and Murphy wondered if there was perhaps an unsavoury character seated there…or someone cuter than Pam. The latter would be difficult; not too many women compared to Pamela Leary, save for… Murphy grimaced at his train of thought. He tried not to think about Wren, but inevitably he did so, at least once a day.

"What's so interesting over there, then, hmm?" Murphy asked, sliding to the edge of his seat. He stood and gathered his beer and his pack of cigarettes from the table.

"Wher'ya off to?" Conn asked, trying to act innocent.

"T'the bar. See who's here," Murphy shrugged. It shouldn't be that big of a surprise – Murphy always liked to see who was around. He was the observer, content to sit back and watch Connor mix and mingle. Not that Murphy was anti-social; he just enjoyed people watching. "I'll be back in a bit. Give ye some alone time with Pam, aye?" He winked at his brother's girlfriend and headed to the bar, completely missing the amused glance Pam shot Connor.

He took a seat near the middle, looking up at the three big screen televisions showing hockey, hockey, and hockey. Of course there was a Bruins' game on, against the Flames, and he settled in, pulling out a cigarette. He patted down his jeans for his lighter, his eyes still fixed on the game, and cursed when he came up empty handed. Just as he looked down again, a flame licked to life, bursting from a small, bronze cased Zippo.

"Ah, thanks, girl," he grinned, focusing on the flame and not on the face that stood before him. He knew she had blonde hair past her shoulders. And that she was small, probably wearing three inch heels.

"Out of all the gin joints in all the world, you ended up in mine."

Murphy paused and looked past the flame, straight into Wren Abernathy's dark blue gaze.

"Holy fuck," he murmured around the cigarette in his mouth.

"Back at ya, Murph," she grinned, closing the lighter with a snap and setting it on the bar. She smiled at his obvious surprise and made a note to thank Pam for setting this up. He seemed rather pleased at the prospect to be seated at her bar, because the shock wore off and his smile formed, making Wren's heart beat just a little bit faster. He looked good – the same, really, but guys don't change that much in just a couple of months. But he was still good to look at, with dark hair sweeping across his forehead, a bit of beard on his chin, and wonderful almond-shaped blue eyes. And his shoulders were just as broad as she remembered them, and they filled out his black t-shirt quite nicely.

"I can't believe it," he laughed softly. He quickly glanced back in the direction of the booth where he left Connor and Pam. "Did Conn have anything to do with this?"

Wren shrugged. "Maybe." She opened her mouth to continue when her attention was flagged by a waitress. "Be right back," she said with another smile.

She was gone, giving Murphy a moment to gather his thoughts and redirect the blood from his groin back to his head. Then Wren turned around at the other end of the bar and walked back, and he got a good look at her – and boyo, did she look _good_. Had it only been two months? What had he been thinking, not keeping track of her? She wore a tight, short, black skirt, and her legs were bare. On her feet, little black boots with a heel. The purple silk top she wore showed off her shoulders and her back – she wasn't wearing a bra, he was certain. He shifted in his seat, a little fizzle of pleasure singing his nerves as he realized her lack of a bra, and watched as she worked. The silver bracelets on her wrists jangled sweetly as she poured drink orders. She laughed with the waitress and another patron, and Murphy took note of the way the blond man at the other end of the bar was looking at her. He didn't like it. The thought made him strangely warm.

"I'm off at eleven," Wren announced as she made her way back to Murphy. "You sticking around or will I have to wait another two months to see you?"

Murphy blew out a stream of smoke and chuckled. "I hope not," he answered cryptically. "Come for a drink at my place?" In his mind, she was already stripped bare, pressed up against the wall of the shower…no, no…bent over the kitchen table…or maybe on Conn's bed…

"Sure," Wren shrugged, trying to sound as casually aloof as possible. In _her_ mind, he was already pounding into her on every, and against every, available surface she could imagine. Her boss's Camaro in the parking lot…the brick alleyway at Henderson and First, the one where the full moon hit… maybe a kitchen table of sorts… She turned to the back shelf and pulled a bottle down and presented it to Murphy. "Should I bring the Bushmill's?"

Murphy considered it, their last hours flashing back through his mind and making him shift on his stool again. He still had a quarter cube of Kilkenny's Cream in the fridge. He shook his head. "Got something better in mind," he winked.

"Well, I hope ye plan on sharin', me brother," Connor announced as he appeared at Murphy's side.

Murphy groaned at his twin's horrendous timing, but smirked at Wren anyway as she smiled at the pair of them.

"Why, Murph! Look it' here, a little Wren…caught up in the furze. How are ye, lass; good ta see ya again."

"And you, Connor," Wren smiled with a small blush. She couldn't help it – he was good to look at, and had a more flirtatious nature than his darker half. She watched as Connor swung an arm around Murphy's shoulders and noted a tattoo running the length of his left forefinger, as well as part of a Celtic cross on his left forearm. The word _Veritas_ stared back at her and she looked back to Murphy's right hand. _Aequitas._ Then she mentally smacked herself – had she _really_ mistranslated the Latin the first time around? Some Roman History major _she_ was. Why hadn't Murphy corrected her that night? She swung her gaze back to Murphy to find him watching her intently.

"So, how 'bout it?" Murphy asked softly, ignoring Connor's presence. "Later?" He had a feeling he might have some explaining to do – she looked like she'd realized her mistake about his tattoo and really, he hadn't had the heart to correct her that night. Her words had stuck with him and had given him more than enough reason to have her once more that night, and then twice the next morning.

"It's goin' to haf to be later, Murph. Doc needs us to go down to the pub – something about Italian fuck-asses." Conn smirked, but looked somewhat remorseful – he didn't like the fact he was cutting Murphy's reunion short.

"Eh?" Murphy finally glanced at his brother. "The feck ye talkin' 'bout?"

Connor tilted his head to one side as if to say, 'Do I have to spell it out?'

"Ah," Murphy sighed.

"Rocco," Connor and Murphy said in unison. There was a good chance that Rocco was drunk and causing a bit of a ruckus.

"M'sorry, girl," Murphy said as he put out his cigarette. "I've got te go an' take care o'this. Can I come back when yer done? Make sure ye get home safe?"

Wren blushed at his choice of words and the soft, suggestive tone in which he said them in. She heard her name being called and glanced over her shoulder to see her co-worker, Sam, panicking as the bar orders piled up. "Shit," she muttered. "I gotta go, too…" her teeth worried her bottom lip as Murphy's blue gaze caught hers. "I wouldn't mind if you came back," she admitted softly. "So, I guess I'll see you later?"

Murphy was already standing and taking the jacket that Connor held out to him. He had a fresh cigarette in his mouth. "Aye. You will."

"Well, I'm staying. I'll keep her company," Pam announced as she took over Murphy's stool and arranged her jacket and purse. "You boys go. Take care of Rocco."

"Mmm, and I can come back, too?" Connor murmured, burying his face in the back of Pam's neck and doing something to make her squeal.

"Get going," Pam said as she blushed crimson and smacked Connor's shoulder. She rolled her eyes at Wren and then watched as the MacManus brothers left. Then, turning back to Wren, Pam asked, "So who's the blond dude at the end of the bar checking you out?"

* * *

><p>"D'ya think he'll stay put?" Murphy asked as Connor shut the door to Rocco's apartment behind them. They'd managed to bring Rocco's high spirits to a dull roar, indulged in a few more pints and some shots, and then got him home in one piece.<p>

Connor laughed and tucked Murphy under his arm, steering him back down the stairs. "I have no worries. He's out like a fuckin' light. Stupid prick. Tryin' to out-drink a MacManus?"

Murphy laughed with his brother and the two of them landed in the street, turning up Belmont Avenue and heading back towards Grayson's. Connor lit them each a smoke and handed one to Murphy.

"Thanks," the darker twin nodded, "and fer tonight, too."

"What are ye talkin' about?" Connor asked, feigning innocence.

Murphy puffed away on his cigarette for a moment and fixed Connor with a narrowed gaze. "Oh, c'mon, I know ye planned it. Or had some part in it." The smile on Connor's face when he'd approached Wren and Murphy at the bar earlier had been enough evidence that Murphy had been set up, no matter how benign.

"I swear," Connor said solemnly, "that it wasn't me."

"Oh, aye, I believe you," Murphy growled, not even convinced.

"Murph, I'm yer own brother. Yer _twin_," Connor emphasised, trying not to laugh. "D'ya really think I'd pull a fast one over on ye?"

Murphy continued walking, stuffing his hands in his pocket and smirking around his cigarette. "I'd be worried if ya didn't, Conn."

Connor paused for a moment and then jogged to catch up to Murphy's gait. "All right. Maybe I had a wee bit in it. But it was worth it, aye? She's cute, Murph. An' for some strange reason, she likes _you_ better than _me_."

Murphy smiled broadly and wrapped his arm around Connor's shoulders. "That's because, little brother, I've the bigger cock." He laughed hysterically at Connor's indignant face and took off running.

"Feck you," Connor muttered before taking off after his brother.

* * *

><p>Grayson's had quieted down some, being past midnight, but as the twins entered, Murphy could hear Wren's laughter followed by several other voices joining in. He elbowed Connor in the ribs and then took off, wandering back towards the pool tables, where the commotion was coming from. The smile that had been plastered on his face when he walked in faded quickly when he spotted Wren perched on the knee of the blond guy from the end of the bar.<p>

Then one that had been looking her up and down like she was a side of 28-day aged beef.

The one that was currently smoothing his hand up her back and brushing her hair over one shoulder, laughing with her and those that surrounded her. It didn't seem like Wren was encouraging it, but she wasn't exactly _dis_couraging it, either. Connor pushed past him as Pam noticed them, and went to go stand with her.

For a moment, Murphy was unsure of what to do. Wren caught sight of Connor as he joined Pam and she quickly looked back over her shoulder to see Murphy. She smiled, and slid neatly from the blond's knee to reach for her beer. At the same time, the blond reached for her, curling a hand about her hip and holding her steady.

That's when Murphy moved. "Eh," he called, stepping towards Wren and the asshole grabbing her. "Git yer 'ands off 'er."

Wren opened her mouth to tell Murphy to relax – that Mark was an old friend from college – but Mark was already standing and posturing. "Who the fuck are you?"

The question stumped Murphy because really, who was he to Wren? But his mouth was already moving. "Who the feck are _you_?" he shot back, looking up into the blond's face. Yes, this guy was a good four inches taller, but that never made Murphy think twice during a confrontation. His hand shot out and wrapped around Wren's wrist, pulling her closer to him as he continued to stare up at the blond.

"Hey – Murph, fucking watch it," Wren snapped, frowning as her beer spilled and splashed to the floor. She looked up at him and grew silent at the icy gaze he threw her way.

"Who the feck is this guy to 'ave 'is 'ands all over ye?" he asked quietly, searching her face for some sort of reassurance.

She pulled her wrist free and glared at him. "A friend from college."

"Ye let all yer school mates grope ye in public?"

"Hey, Wren, who's the fucking Mick?" Mark interrupted, drawing Wren's attention from Murphy to him.

"Oh, aye, an' yer just so superior, Mr. Anglo Saxon fuck-wit," Murphy growled.

"Mark, it's okay, I've got this," Wren started. And she did – she just needed to let Murphy know where he stood…as soon as she figured it out for herself.

"No, this guy's a prick," Mark continued, eyeballing Murphy. "Walking in here, acting like he owns you, like you're the last bottle of Guinness or something." He took a hold of Wren's hand and pulled her away from Murphy.

Murphy's hand landed on Mark's wrist. "Let her go," he growled softly.

Mark narrowed his gaze at Murphy. "Or what?"

Murphy glanced from Wren and back to Mark, one eyebrow raising dangerously.

She'd never seen him in an altercation before, but she was a bartender and she knew all too well the signs of two males getting ready to beat the hell out of each other. "Take it outside," she hissed, glancing around the bar and the crowd that was slowly forming. When Murphy didn't move, Wren looked to Connor in a silent plea for help.

"No problem," Mark announced, looking back to his group of friends. "You guys wanna see how fast an Irishman falls?"

Murphy lunged then but Connor was already standing, grabbing the back of his brother's coat. "Outside," Connor muttered. "Take it outside and ye can kick his arse from here to Waltham."

"You're next," Mark announced, eyeing Connor.

Connor sneered, but ushered Murphy out of the bar, Pam and Wren following close behind.


	2. Down With the Pan

The walk back to Murphy's apartment was silent. He'd dropped Mark in less than a minute and only suffered a small cut to his forehead. After that quick round, Mark's friends had backed off, especially when Connor took a stand beside his brother. When the crowd had cleared, Connor had taken Pam under his arm and spoken quietly to Murphy in what Wren guessed was Gaelic. Then Wren and Murphy were alone.

The journey to the fifth floor of the apartment building was just as silent, until Wren's voice bravely broke the stillness between them.

"What the hell was that all about?"

Her voice sounded odd to Murphy and he bristled at the tone. He'd never heard her angry before. Happy, yes, laughing, of course, orgasmic…well, obviously. But angry? Or was she hurt? He paused on the fourth floor landing and looked at her. She was still staring ahead, her dark blue eyes fixed on the row of doors before them.

"What was what about?" he snapped back.

She snorted and pushed past him, rounding the landing to start on the next set of stairs. "You don't own me, you know."

He narrowed his eyes at this definite shift in attitude, but answered with the first words that came to his mind. "I didn't like the way he was handlin' you," he growled.

"Well, maybe I did." In truth, she really didn't, but she was trying to get a point across to Murphy. She should have known better – men are clueless unless you slap them in the face with precise words and actions. She dared a sullen glance at Murphy and swallowed the lump in her throat as she saw his eyes narrow dangerously.

"Oh, is that so?" He whispered gruffly. He crossed the floor between them, stepped right up to her, and shoved her back against the wall of the stairwell. "Ye like bein' pawed, girl?" He licked his lips at the spark of emotion in her eyes – it wasn't fear, and that was good, because he wasn't trying to scare her. He was trying to drive home the fact that if anyone was going to be manhandling her, it was going to be him. His hands gripped her thighs just below the hem of her skirt and squeezed, and he heard her inhale sharply through her nose.

She tossed her head angrily, whipping his chin with the ends of her hair, and wiggled between him and the wall until her hand was free. She gripped his face, thumb on his jaw and fingers on his cheek, and shoved him roughly aside. "Fuck you," she sneered. She jerked to the side, away from him.

He snagged the front of her jacket and landed her easily again, shoving her harder into the wall and pinning her with his hips. Then his hand came up, in a mirror of her own, and held her face firmly as he stared into her eyes. His other hand wound beneath her skirt and worked its way between her thighs. When he eyes betrayed her and fluttered closed at his touch, he grinned, and leaned in and murmured in her ear: "Gladly." Her breathing hitched and he heard the slightest moan tumble from her lips.

His hand remained on her face while the one between her thighs withdrew and wrenched on his belt and the button fly of his jeans. Half-hard already, he only needed to stroke his cock a few times before he was more than ready to have her. He pushed her skirt up and out of the way and snapped her panties off of her, prying a startled gasp from her. He looked in her eyes again, searching for any hesitation, but found only dark humour there, mixed with intrigue. He'd fuck the humour right out of her, he decided, and give her something to think about for the next two months.

She fought against him half heartedly, not really wanting to escape, but not wanting to give it up so easily, either. She wasn't a complete pushover. Murphy's hands grappled her hips and easily lifted her against the wall, the weeping head of his cock already brushing against her damp, impossible heat. A whine crawled out of her throat and she felt her cheeks flame as Murphy smirked triumphantly. A second later he was pulling her hips down, and he shoved his length inside snugly. They grunted in unison. Her legs wound around his hips and one hand clung to his jacket while the other fisted his hair roughly.

"Well, come on, then, Murph. _Fuck_ me," she taunted, swiping at his bottom lip with her tongue.

"Feckin' bossy," he muttered, trying to twist his head free of her grip. It only made her pull harder and with a frustrated growl he rammed into her, pushing her up the wall by inches and making her voice cry out sharply. "Shut up," he panted, one hand coming up and covering her mouth as he continued to drill into her.

Her head lolled back against the wall, her eyes drifting shut as Murphy worked against her roughly. Every thrust sparked new desire in her, making her thighs tighten around his hips, and the way he handled her was making her head spin. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, his tongue and teeth snagging against her collarbone over and over, making her toes curl in her boots. The hand that gripped her hip slid to her ass, hoisting her up and tilting her to a new angle at the same time. Then Murphy doubled his efforts.

A breathy wail rattled out of her, beneath his palm, and he glanced up from her neck to see her eyes squeeze shut. Seconds later, she froze, and then her hips jerked roughly as her teeth sank into his hand, her orgasm crashing over her. She was beautiful, flushed, at his whim, and he groaned and pulled his hand free, replacing it with his mouth. Her tongue was lazy against his, but he kissed her firmly, rocking his hips in time with hers as she came down.

She felt the tremor run through his shoulders as she clung to him, gasping desperately after coming hard. His mouth tasted like beer and smoke, and something distinctly Murphy, and soon both of her hands were pressed to his face, holding him there, so that she could kiss him back just as ferociously. A low moan vibrated through Murphy's chest and Wren swallowed it before pulling her lips free.

He hissed, flexing his fingers into the flesh of her ass as his thrusts doubled speed. His skin crawled beneath his clothing – all he really wanted to do was get naked with her again, and feel her against him, under and over and all around. But she was begging so sweetly, with her lips and her eyes and her body that Murphy could only stare into her eyes as she chanted his name and urged him to come. It started before he knew it, the rush of hot, white heat, and he faltered only once as he did as she asked, his hips stuttering and ragged moans tearing from his mouth. He forced his final groan into her mouth and kissed her soundly, both of their bodies trembling against the stairway wall.

He felt her teeth snag his bottom lip and he pulled away with a startled yelp, scowling at her. "What the feck was that fer?"

"For telling me to shut up," she simply replied.

Murphy's smile was dark, and his fingers tightened on her hips as he leaned close to her ear. "Well, as I recall, yer quite the screamer, Wren. Didn't want to be wakin' the neighbours, now."

As if on cue, the hollow slide of a deadbolt opening roused them, and they both looked to see the door next to the landing inch open. A tiny old lady, maybe seventy or so, stuck her nose out and narrowed her sharp hazel eyes at Murphy.

"Damn, MacManus! If it's not you, it's the other one! Couldn't wait to get up the stairs?" She ran her eyes over Wren and couldn't help but smile, a twinkle coming to her eyes. "And you, girl," she said with the hint of Irish brogue, "I don't blame ye for not being able to wait!" She winked and grinned slyly at Murphy before shutting the door and locking it once more.

Wren began to giggle as Murphy's cheeks flared up. "Fecking hell," he muttered, leaning his forehead against Wren's. "She's gonna tell Connor, aye? He won't let me live this down for a while."

"Sounds like she's seen a lot of action – how many girls have you fucked on these stairs?" Wren wiggled in Murphy's grip and he reluctantly let her go and slipped from her body.

"Including you?" he asked as he rearranged his jeans and then yanked her skirt down. "One." He bent and scooped up her discarded underwear. "Er…sorry bout' that. I'll buy ye a new pair," he shrugged, unable to hide the smirk as Wren inspected the shredded scrap of cotton and lace.

"Good thing I carry a spare," Wren muttered, motioning to the purse that was till worn cross-wise across her body.

"Go through a lot of underwear?"

Wren smiled. "My father was a Cub Scout leader – always be prepared." She began to climb the stairs, smirking as Murphy pocketed her destroyed panties.

"What else ye got in there, eh?" He pulled on one edge and made to peek inside. "Candy to lure helpless young men?"

She slapped his hand away and rolled her eyes. "Handcuffs. Candle. Rope."

"Sounds like you've got the entire game o' 'Clue', too. Can I be Colonel Mustard?"

"More like Mr. Green," she answered wryly.

Murphy grinned and shook his head, continuing up the stairs. "C'mon." He led her to a door near the end of the hall and paused, glancing at her as he fitted the key into its lock. "Eh…it's not much, aye?"

Wren shrugged, leaning against the wall and watching Murphy work. "Does it have four walls?"

"Aye," he chuckled.

"Running water?"

He paused. "Aye…not always hot, though," he answered with a bit of a frown. Wren's shower at her loft had been absolute bliss.

His answer, however, didn't seem to phase her. "A bed?" she asked.

"Aye."

"Then you have everything you need."

Murphy didn't answer her, his mind still wandering to her loft – her place was a dream and he often reminisced about the feel of her sheets against his legs. He wiggled the lock one last time and the door swung open. He reached inside of the door for the light switch and flicked it on, wondering why he suddenly felt so self conscious of his and Connor's flat. He'd had plenty of people up here before…

_But she's not just anybody_, his mind rationalized.

He held the door open for her and she stepped inside, smiling up at him as she went. He closed and locked the door behind them and watched as she moved through the space, stopping at the second mattress against the wall.

"Yours?" she asked as she pulled off her purse.

He nodded. She dropped her purse and jacket there, and then proceeded to work on taking off her boots, balancing on one foot to work the zipper on the other. Murphy rushed to her side, taking her by the arm and leading her to the kitchen table. "Here, I've got 'em," he stated, pressing her to lean back against the table as he crouched down and worked on the zipper and buckles of her boots.

The first one came off and Wren sighed in relief. She loved her boots; they gave her an extra three inches behind the bar, but it was murder to work a whole evening in them, not to mention walk through half Boston to get to Southie. Murphy's hands cupped her bare foot and squeezed, rubbing the arch with his thumbs before kneading her ankle bone and toes.

"Ohmygod," she warbled.

"Lord's name," Murphy chuckled from the floor.

"Can't help it," she murmured. "Feels so good."

He glanced up to see her lean further into the table and close her eyes. The cold air of the loft had caused her nipples to tighten and he could see them pressing against the delicate silk of her shirt. He licked his lips and moved to the next foot, yanking the offending footwear off without looking away from her face. The second foot got the same treatment and more moaning spilled from Wren's lips, coupled with a saucy smile and fluttering eyelashes. She shifted her weight again, sliding up to sit on the edge of the table. The hem of her skirt pulled up her thighs and Murphy could help but stare at the shadow between her thighs, knowing damn well she was naked and no less than ten inches away from his mouth.

He balanced on his knees, sliding the heavy wool coat from his shoulders to let it pool on the floor behind him. He rose up, pushing Wren's skirt up once more and leaned down, brushing the faintest kiss to the inside of one knee, and then to the other. Inhaling, he smelled her, the sweet sharpness of arousal, and his own sweat and spending. She smelled incredible. The tip of his tongue traced a circle on the delicate flesh of her inner thigh.

She stopped breathing for a moment and fell back to her elbows before barely raising her hips, urging Murphy to continue. He smirked up at her and she felt her stomach flutter pleasantly. He stood smoothly, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head in the process, and standing between her legs he leaned over her, kissing her fully on the mouth as his fingertips ghosted over her warmth. She moaned helplessly through the kiss, and threaded her fingers through his hair. Her tongue pushed against his and she broke away from his mouth, panting up at him.

"Mmm…do you know what's better than a foot rub?" she purred, drawing the arch of one foot up Murphy's calf and sliding it up and down slowly over the muscle.

Murphy hummed and reached for the tie of her blouse. "No," he smirked. "What?"

Wren twisted her body slightly away from Murphy's. "Beer."

He blinked slowly with dazed blue eyes. "Beer?" he echoed dumbly.

She nodded enthusiastically and slid from the table and padded to the fridge, pulling her skirt down. She hadn't really wanted to stop – Murphy's hands had the ability to ignite a fire the instant they touched her, but she couldn't help it – her mind had been thinking about beer the whole time she had been pouring that night. Their abrupt departure from the bar had resulted in her leaving half of her pint.

Behind her, Murphy groaned and sprawled forward on the table where she had been laying just seconds before. Wren merely giggled. "You can wait, can't you?"

"Aye," Murphy huffed, righting himself and coming to standing behind her at the fridge. "Doesn't mean I want to."

She glanced over her shoulder and chuckled at his pout. "You know, I might have pegged you for the older brother…but you've got that pout down to a science." Then she bent into the open fridge and rummaged around. "Do you really not know who's older?" She handed him a can of Kilkenny.

He shook his head and opened it with a crack and they touched their cans together in a silent toast. "No," he shrugged. "Ma's a right evil woman at that."

Wren shook her head and leaned back against the counter. "She probably had to be, with you two running her ragged."

Murphy narrowed his eyes playfully. "Ye been talkin' to her, then?"

"No," Wren smiled innocently. "I have two brothers. I know what my mother had to do to keep her sanity."

"An' yer da?"

Wren took another sip of beer, her dark blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, trust me, I gave daddy a run for his money. Mom would say I'm a daddy's girl – she's right, had Harris wrapped around my finger from the day I was born. I got away with murder."

* * *

><p>"M'sorry 'bout earlier. At the bar, I mean. I didn't…I mean, I don't…" Murphy sighed in the darkness, turning his head to press his lips into Wren's hair. "I don't know what made me act like that."<p>

Wren shifted at his side, her head pressed against his chest and an arm and a leg thrown over his body. "I do," she murmured. "But if you're going to stake a claim, Murphy MacManus, it would be a good idea to let me in on it."

"Are ye mad? I mean, he was yer friend an' all…" Murphy trailed off, holding his breath. He felt Wren shift again.

"Not really. Not about that, anyway – Mark was always a bit of a dick. Probably deserved it. And I think you hurt his pride more than anything."

Murphy was silent for a moment before he gently pulled from Wren's embrace and rolled to a sitting position. "So then what are ye mad about," he wondered as he dug through their discarded clothes for a cigarette. He felt the mattress shift and then Wren's slender legs were sliding along his as her chest pressed against his back. Instinctively, he leaned back, signing at the feel of her softness pressed up against him.

Her fingers glided down his right arm and lingered on his forefinger before tapping it thoughtfully. "_Justice_," she emphasized. "You didn't bother correcting me that night."

Murphy stilled under her scrutiny and then turned his hand over and linked their fingers. He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed it there for a moment before speaking. "You have a way with words," he started, "and when you said that about me…I suppose I was a little…taken aback."

"Obviously the irony was lost on you," Wren replied, but her tone was light. She kissed his shoulder softly, lingering on the tattoo there.

"You saw Connor's tattoo, then?"

She didn't answer him verbally, but he felt her nod.

"Don't ye find it strange that you mistranslated _exactly_ what his says?"

This time, Wren chuckled and leaned back. Her warmth disappeared and next he heard her bare feet on the hardwood floor. "I wouldn't read too much into it, Murph."

"Can't help it," he argued, watching as she pulled his discarded t-shirt over her head. "M" a fatalist," he explained, "and a true believer that things happen for a reason."

She sat down across from him, on the edge of his twin's bed, and took the cigarette from him. After a thoughtful drag, she fixed him with a wry grin. "Fucking romantic," she accused playfully around the smoke.

Murphy raised his eyebrow and looked up at her through dark lashes. "Ye think this second meetin' is just chance?"

"I think it's a result of Pam's planning."

Murphy growled playfully and snatched his cigarette back. "Are ye always so optimistic, girl?" He blew a few smoke rings.

"Only when it serves a purpose." She was already up and wandering to the fridge. "So," she began, opening the door and leaning in. "If Connor's tattoo says 'truth' and yours says 'justice', is there a third MacManus brother running round with 'The American Way' tattooed somewhere?" She moved a carton of milk aside and smiled at the shelf of Kilkenny Red she found.

"We're _Irish_," Murphy pointed out.

"_Erin Go Bragh_, then?" She grinned and held up a can. "You want one?"

"Sure. And no, there isn't a third brother," Murphy answered, standing and pulling his jeans on. He took the beer Wren offered him and stared at it for a moment.

"Something wrong?" Wren asked after a moment of silence.

Murphy smiled wryly at the can and shook his head. "Dunno. I suppose…" he trailed off, lifting his eyes to her. "I suppose I'm wonderin'… 'ow long this time will last? I mean…"

"Well, I'll stay for breakfast, but I'm afraid you haven't got anything in there besides more beer and some leftover pizza." She attempted humour, but Murphy didn't seem to be on the receiving end of it.

Murphy set the can on the table and then turned to the couch where he sat heavily. "Will I see ye again? After this?"

Wren fiddled with the tab on her own beer can and then set it down on the counter behind her before leaning back. With her arms crossed loosely over her chest, she looked down at her bare toes on the tile and contemplated Murphy's question. "I thought you didn't want…this. That you couldn't…do a relationship."

"I thought that, too," Murphy answered quietly, remembering his words to her that first night. He lifted his head suddenly, his eyes hopeful. "But people change, aye?"

Wren nodded faintly. "Some people do change, Murph. But not everyone."

"Ye sayin' I can't?"

Wren shook her head and padded to the couch, sinking down beside Murphy. "No, I'm not saying that." She leaned into his side very gently and turned to face him, her chin resting on her shoulder as she looked up at him. "I'm saying that you'll try – you'll want it bad enough. I know I do. But whatever it is…" and her fingers reached up and brushed first the tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his neck and then traced the word on his right forefinger, "whatever _this_ is, I'm not part of it. I'm not meant to be a part of it."

Murphy's blue eyes searched her face and he knew her words to be true. God's honest truth, she was insightful. Funny, witty, rough and ready, and he spoke his next words without hesitation. "Stay with me, then. For as long as I can have ye." He didn't wait for her answer and instead, cupped her face gently with one hand, pulling her to meet his lips in a sweet and shattering kiss.

He took his time with her, pulling her hands from him when she moved too urgently. "We've time, girl," he murmured, bringing them to his bed and pulling the covers over them. He held her still, hands stretched above her head and held there with one of his own while his other slowly traced circles and spirals on her flesh, slid between her thighs and made her breath catch in her throat. He kissed her wild and deeply as he pushed within her, slowly rocking her against him, winding her up and bringing her back down over and over. He drew her legs around his hips, anchoring her against him, and continued his languid ebb and flow.

She didn't think she could take much more – the slow, deliberate thrusting, the scrape of his beard along her cheek and jaw, the flexing of his hips and the deep, hot velvet of his tongue, were all coiling her insides to the point of breaking. Then, with a lusty moan, he slipped from her tightness and palmed her hip, rolling her over to her stomach. He pulled her up high enough that he could take her again, and then proceeded to encourage her to the edge once more. With her fingers clutching the sheets below, tears leaked out from behind her eyelids.

"Murphy," she sobbed suddenly, her hips jerking back into him. God, he was making her sound like a fool. She didn't care. "Please, Murphy, I…"

His chest pressed against her shoulders, one hand propping him on the mattress, and his lips hovered at her ear as his other hand snaked over her hip and found where they joined. He stroked, tenderly, and panted in her ear. "Aye… V'got ye, girl. Come with me." His tongue traced over the edge of her ear and he heard her sigh and then gasp. She tightened around him, almost pushing him from her body, but he held on with quick, shallow thrusts. Their voices rose, rasping and harsh in the quiet still of the loft, until they crashed into a wave of satisfaction cresting on their simultaneous release. Beneath him, she shook, and he smiled gently against her shoulder before slipping from her body and lying gently at her side.

"Stay tonight," he murmured gently, watching her eyes drift shut. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"What's for breakfast?" she whispered against his pillow.

* * *

><p><em>I'm thinking Murphy is gonna make her some boxty in the morning...what do you think? I'm thinking I'll continue this...<em>


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